


Uncontained

by Resoan



Series: Dragon Age Inquisition AU [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abelas and Fena'dea spar in Skyhold's courtyard, but the physical activity quickly escalates into something more: a something more that is resolved just a little while later alone in Abelas's chambers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncontained

**Author's Note:**

> This particular part of the AU is set after Revelations, but before Sealed no Longer. They don't have to be read in order to be understood, though it makes the story flow a bit better.

After the fifth time Cole backed away, daggers hanging loosely in his hands, Fena'dea knew this was a bad idea; she had gone to the other dual-wielding rogue with the hope they could train together: such a distraction was preferable to the cacophony of voices echoing around in her head. The sensitive young man had not initially agreed; indeed, he'd even tried to say no – he could see the need for training, but actively fighting an ally, a _friend_? It was tantamount to blasphemy, and even after she'd wheedled and begged, he'd only come grudgingly.

To make matters more frustrating, he always retreated when he gained the upper hand; Fena'dea had lost count of how many groans she'd withheld just to ensure she didn't make Cole feel guilty, though as she pushed herself off the ground and brushed off the dirt, she gave him a tight smile. “Are you all right?” His heartfelt question easily softened her expression, however, and Fena'dea merely let out a quiet sigh before nodding, lips pulling into a slow, sincere smile.

“I'm fine, Cole. How about we call it a day? I can come by the tavern later, and we can talk.” The young man nodded his approval, his expression much less tormented than it had been a moment ago. Even as he literally disappeared into thin air, presumably to return to his place on the uppermost floor of the tavern, Fena'dea turned back towards the training yard: walled off by wooden boards and currently empty after she and Cole had vacated it just a few moments ago. She'd left her proper armor and even training leathers behind: had instead anticipated a good bout in the training ring, and had merely left the wrap around her upper chest in place – even though some of the wandering Chantry sisters gasped at the indecency. Lines of dark teal criss-crossed along the lines of her back, the contours of her belly before finally winding into a final loop just across her collarbones. Some even disappeared beneath the material of her trousers.

 _I guess that's it for training today_ , Fena'dea inwardly sighed, her arm lifting to wipe away the few beads of sweat that had appeared when she'd been sparring; Cole kept her on her toes, certainly, but she wasn't exhausted – wasn't even really tired yet. With Corypheus dead, the Inquisition hadn't had the need to go out into Orlais or Ferelden to fight whatever beasties remained, and Fena'dea, for one, was just a touch annoying at being cooped up in Skyhold for such a long while. She needed to keep her skills strong, however, and fighting a practice dummy simply wasn't the same as another living, thinking being who actually moved and reacted to what she was doing and how she moved.

“Giving up so soon?” It was a voice she'd heard more of in the past few weeks than she ever thought possible, though the corners of her lips did tilt upwards when she turned towards the source. “I know you frustrate easily, but outright submission?” _That_ earned a halfhearted glare.

“In case you're incapable of noticing, there is no one left who will spar with me.” Fena'dea gestured towards the open space of the training area, and though she couldn't quite be sure with the shadows beneath Abelas's hood, it looked as though he smiled, or perhaps even smirked, for just a moment.

Neither had brought up the kisses they'd shared around Corypheus's final act, and neither had instigated any since either; still, Fena'dea was surprised that Abelas had not completely cut himself off from her. In fact, she'd fully expected him to realize the severity of his actions and retreat into his shell to never be seen again – but he hadn't. His demeanor was mostly unchanged, though she could see more animation in his expressions now: could see the glimmering of his eyes when she succeeded in finding a particular memory from the Well's vast pool of knowledge, the patience when she struggled, and more than a few times something deeper when he thought she was not watching.

“Oh?” The single syllable garnered her attention faster than she might have realized; “I am here, am I not?” One of Fena'dea's eyebrows lifted at the implication, and it was only then she thought back to the temple of Mythal: of fighting at Abelas's side against Samson...

“You wield a two-handed _hammer_ with a rock the size of both our heads at the end, and you want to _spar_?” Incredulity wove through her tone and etched itself into her expression, though she could see the smirk Abelas had previously tried to hide – such a self-assured expression she wanted to tear it away.

“Do you have a lack of confidence in your abilities? I would not presume to make you uncomfortable.” Smugness was not a quality Fena'dea had ever assumed she would hear from Abelas, but it grated against her: stirred a fire to prove herself that was not wholly dissimilar from the one she felt when he'd first disparaged her at the temple, and during their first few lessons concerning the Well's secrets.

“Because feeling all the sorrow and seeing all the memories of the Well is well within my comfort zone,” Fena'dea snapped, though it was not a statement made in irritation; in fact, her face broke into a sly smile as her hands slithered down her sides to where her daggers were sheathed. At first, Abelas did not respond: merely observed her with a deep, unreadable expression, though when his eyes moved down to where her hands lingered, his own lifted to remove the cloak covering his head and resting against the backs of his knees.

The sight of something silver glinting in the sunlight gave Fena'dea pause as Abelas stepped closer, and her eyebrows drew together curiously – she had not once seen Abelas without a hood of some sort, and hadn't even entertained the notion that he'd have something so banal as _hair_. He was supposed to be intimidating, larger than life even; she looked pointedly away when he caught her staring, though only when she chanced to look back did she see he'd picked up one of the practice greatswords, the silverite shining as he angled it in the sun and looked it over with a frown on his lips. “It will do,” he finally murmured, though Fena'dea scarcely caught it – was too busy plotting out escape routes from a sword nearly as long as she was tall.

His first swing came without warning; only reflexes taught her by years of experience in hunting and tracking allowed her to take a few steps back and bring her daggers up to block – just in case his swing somehow moved back up even with momentum dragging it down. She crouched low, daggers pointing back as she held on tightly to the leather-bound hilts, and just as her eyes met his, a puff of smoke surrounded her: enveloped her in his incorporeal embrace as she moved silently. Even then, however, Abelas's eyes were narrowed, and somehow, he could predict her location – even if he could not see her.

He hefted his blade up just as she dropped her cover and brought her daggers down; metal shrieked against metal, and Fena'dea fell back as Abelas pulled back the sword and made to sweep a horizontal arc in front of him – where she'd been moments previous. There was only a half-second of an opening, and Fena'dea sprang upwards to find that chink in his armor; the point of one of her daggers met its target, and she could see the frustration contort his features as he moved to angle his body away from her. “One point to me,” Fena'dea murmured in a gleeful whisper, though she ensured it was loud enough for the grumpy elf to hear.

The duel continued with a vengeance after that; Abelas was swifter and far more maneuverable than Fena'dea anticipated, and more than once she'd had to dance away from him as her only means of escape – staying within range was far too dangerous, and not for the first time, she was grateful he was her ally and not her nemesis. His first 'point' came only a few moments after her own; Abelas brought his sword down harshly, and while Fena'dea easily evaded and slipped the other way, the ancient elf had somehow managed to pull the blade up from the ground and box her in between the lowered blade and himself.

Purple eyes glared up at him, daggers caught between the twists of her body as she'd tried to get away as she had earlier; “Point,” he whispered, the self-satisfied smile returning to his lips. The duel went no better for Fena'dea than before; Abelas, however, was beginning to read her movements, and was even beginning to anticipate them: somehow situating himself until he was where she'd intended to go to be free of his reach. It took the rogue a few minutes to realize Abelas's tactics, and when she did, it did not take her long at all to devise a solution for it. Even though Abelas did not feel alarmed at the smirk that crossed Fena'dea's lips, the rogue was certain of her victory now.

Instead of dancing _away_ from Abelas, Fena'dea now danced _closer_ to him; when his blade came down close and she managed to block its edge with her daggers, she'd spun in towards him until her shoulders knocked against his chest – not harshly by any means, though when she turned to look at him, her smile was too innocent. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and the next time when she spun closer, he could not deny it was on purpose – especially not with how intimately she pressed against him. At first, he felt nothing but irritation and annoyance, but as their spar continued, such fleeting emotions melted under the heat of the sun...or perhaps, a different heat altogether.

Even as a child, Fena'dea had not quite known the limits of her actions until repercussions came of them; she could see _something_ clouding Abelas's eyes as they continued, though she never stood still long enough for a good look, and even then, she assumed he was merely becoming frustrated with her as he would during a particularly poor session concerning the Well. “ _Enough_ .” His tone was terse and gruff, more so than normal, but it did not quite dawn on Fena'dea yet _why_.

 _Victory at last_. Fena'dea felt relief wash over her – she couldn't remember the last time she'd had to dodge so frequently. Not even during the final battle with Corypheus had she had to move around as much. Just as she lifted her head to ask if he yielded, his hand closed around her arm and he pulled her closer, golden eyes as serious as she'd ever seen them, and though she couldn't quite discern what else was there, the intensity made her tremble.

“Emma na'tu reva'din, Elvar'asha.” Abelas's voice was somewhere between a muffle and a growl against the side of her neck, and while the contact was certainly disorienting and distracting, she did manage to understand a few of the elven words.

“I am _not_ difficult!” The rogue was scarcely able to get her words out before a pair of lips sealed over her own, the hand on her arm instead rounding her waist and dragging her closer until Abelas was assured there was no space left between them at all. Her daggers dropped to the ground where Abelas had allowed his sword to fall, and despite how many milled around Skyhold's central courtyard, neither of the pair seemed to notice – or if they did, they did not care. _Weeks_ had passed since their last kiss, and neither were in any japing mood; if others found them to be a curiosity, it truly did not matter.

Fena'dea was loath to part from him even as she discovered her lungs burned for air, though when she felt Abelas begin to pull away, she did not fight him, even as her lips down-turned into a frown at the loss of contact. His gaze scalded her as she looked into it: a molten gold that smoldered with a depth she perhaps had always known he'd possessed, though hadn't quite understood until that very moment.

The pair turned quite a few heads as they passed by, though Fena'dea had no idea where they might be going; even as Abelas turned towards the garden and pulled her into a little-used alcove where even the humans did not tread often, she had to wonder what Abelas's intention was. She had little enough time to wonder as she was abruptly turned and pressed against a cold, stone wall: hot, devouring lips overtaking her own as fingers traced over the sensitive skin on her bare sides before making their way inwards.

She gasped as the flat of his palm splayed across her belly, fingers nimbly tracing over vallaslin he knew to be there even if he could not see it from his current vantage point; Abelas, Fena'dea also soon discovered, was not one to miss an opportunity. His tongue swept inside of her mouth as her lips parted, tender and probing even as fueled by passion as his motions were; thoughts began to blur as she nipped at his tongue playfully, her hands sliding appraisingly up his chest as a pleased rumble reverberated deep in his chest: just beneath her fingertips.

Such a sound bolstered Fena'dea's confidence, and only once as her fingers slid up the pale expanse of skin at the base of his neck did Abelas still: as though suddenly aware of what was going on and uncertain of himself. Fena'dea was more than willing to guide him gently back to her, even if he'd not technically moved away from her physically; she dragged him closer with her hands, angled her head to deepen their kiss, and even slid her hips forward to graze against his – such a motion drew a garbled, incoherent sound from him, and she smirked into their kiss.

The hand on her belly wound swiftly around until it found her hip instead, strong fingers digging into the fabric there just as his other hand settled on the opposite hip; their lips parted then, a shared breath lingering between them as both fought to breathe. Fena'dea swallowed as she looked up at Abelas, one of her hands moving slowly forward until it cupped his jaw, the tip of her thumb running gently over a cheekbone and the sensitive skin just below an eye where Mythal's vallaslin still marked him.

He leaned closer for another kiss after another moment, a gentle, soft thing that soon became torrid and passionate as his hands on her hips moved to the backs of her thighs and lifted her easily. A ragged, surprised sound tore from Fena'dea's lips at the sudden and abrupt contact, a sound only exaggerated as her legs wrapped around his waist and she held onto him as tightly as he did her. Fena'dea's fingertips seemed to move of their own accord as they slid away from Abelas's face and instead searched the under-armor he wore for a clasp or snap to undo; after ensuring she was well-stabilized against the wall, Abelas moved a hand swiftly after her own before forcing it to hesitate against his side. The look they shared would forever be seared into Fena'dea's memory, and even as a flash of heat scorched across her skin, she knew what that look meant. _Not here_.

She frowned despite the heat she saw in his eyes, and felt absolutely no remorse when she purposefully slid their hips back together: a tacit plea, and one that sent tremors down Abelas's spine before he was able to control himself long enough to react. He released her hand before returning it to her backside, and she would have to laud Abelas's celerity in getting to his chamber – a clandestine place, really, with few things inside but a bed, and a few pieces of furniture with candles for light in the evenings.

The room was dark as the door shut behind them, but even as Abelas gently set her down, she could see his face – the softness of his eyes, the poorly-veiled desire, even the uncertainty; if he'd been with another in the past, it was undoubtedly _long_ in the past. There were also unspoken words in every touch, every fleeting look that passed between them, and the kiss they shared then was sweeter than those that came before, as though it promised of future instances, of a _future_ together at all, and that was enough to make either breathless with anticipation.

His fingers helped guide hers to the buckles holding the under-armor into place, and the metal gave way easily enough even as it caused a quiet clatter when it fell to the floor; Fena'dea allowed herself to be pushed onto her back, though instead of climbing over top of her as she expected, he pulled away from their kiss and lingered at her side, the tips of his fingers tracing over the vallaslin as it traced across her skin. She couldn't quite catch the murmurs that parted his lips, though even as she thought to ask, he leaned closer, one of his hands settling on the other side of her legs, and began a slow trail of kisses up the line of vallaslin.

The sensation stilled her breathing in her chest, and Fena'dea could scarcely help it when her back arched minutely off the bed – the only way she might achieve greater contact without having to move her hands which currently clenched into the thin sheet beneath her: the only source of stability she could find. His forehead nudged the material wrapped and binding her chest, and he pulled his lips away from her skin, golden eyes narrowing uncertainly at the obstruction; his strong, spindly hands made short work of them, however, and he continued his trail of kisses along the sinuous lines of vallaslin between her breasts.

When the lines of kisses came to an end at her collarbones, Fena'dea could hardly resist dragging a hand along the side of his face until he looked up at her and she beckoned him closer with a breathless, brilliant smile. His knees settled on either side of her hips to balance himself better as he did as she bid him, though he was wholly unprepared when cold, mischievous hands began mapping out the lines of his chest, squeezing appreciatively every so often – just often enough to make him shudder when he thought she was finished at long last.

Fena'dea frowned when Abelas pulled away, though purple eyes flicked closed as his lips instead moved down the line of her neck, nipping and sucking gently; such touches and motions were but mere sparks in contrast to the growing warmth just underneath her skin, however, and when the tension became more than she could bear, she stopped him, eyes slightly narrowed though there was little question of what she wanted. The look she received for her trouble consumed her, left her little more than a quivering heap of nerves and raw emotion, though he did not leave her wanting.

Her trousers were easily cast aside, as were the smallclothes underneath, though it took every ounce of concentration not to squirm away – it had been a very long while since she'd been this intimate or close with anyone, and it was not a decision she'd made lightly. It gave Fena'dea heart to realize that the same was true of Abelas, though; how much more trust had he placed in her than she'd ever thought possible? When she cast her eyes up towards him, she very nearly smiled an amused smile at how impatient he appeared with the buckles and straps on his own person, though she helped him after a moment, her smile sly when he cared to look.

A quiet yelp escaped her lips when he literally pounced half a second later, remnants of his armor abandoned on the floor and hands holding himself aloft on either side of her; a moment of indecision had him looking at her again, asking and uncertain and feeling inexplicably foolish, though she shook her head slightly. They'd come so far – she didn't want to go back.

His touches were gentle albeit slightly rushed – such was how long he'd kept himself in check and waiting; another kiss, heated and full of emotion she doubt he'd ever say aloud, was the only warning she received. There was definite pressure, a tightness undoubtedly linked to how very long it had been, though Abelas was nothing if not patient; she could feel the tension in his arms, in his hand as it skimmed over her belly and lifted to cup over one of her breasts, though such a thought was easily purged from her mind as that same hand squeezed and massaged with more skill than she had anticipated.

It was a loud, unhindered moan that echoed in Abelas's chamber, and as his hips rocked, the motion and friction only managed to drag out the sound; the pressure continued to build, and while it wasn't quite comfortable yet, the lack of movement was beginning to wear Fena'dea thin. Her tongue ran over her lips in an attempt to moisten them, but even then her throat was too dry to speak; instead, she managed to roll her hips once more, and that singular movement seemed to awaken something in Abelas: something hungry, specifically, hungry for _her_.

His subsequent kisses consumed her, filled her belly with a fire very nearly out of control and undoubtedly spreading across her scorched skin, and as his hips began to move into a semblance of a rhythm, his lips moved from hers to instead consume all the skin he'd yet to sample. All the sudden onslaught of attention made her want to writhe: made her feel as though her spine had somehow disintegrated and had fallen into the mattress beneath her, and all she could do was be subject to this new side of him, all the while spurring him onward with breathless gasps and moans cut-off midway as his lips moved elsewhere.

Her arms would have wound their way around his neck had it been closer at hand, but instead her fingers clawed at everything they could reach; the pace intensified suddenly, or perhaps Fena'dea had simply missed the impetus for the change, though either way, it threatened to drive her to the edge of sanity as one of his hands gripped her leg and dragged her closer until their hips were almost flush. The sound died in her throat as soon as it began, and it took little more to send her falling over the edge, a shrill cry on her tongue; Abelas followed half a second later, though if he made any sounds as he did so, Fena'dea did not hear them as her own still rang loudly in her ears.

The pair shared body heat once they initially separated, Abelas's back to the door and his arm curled tightly around Fena'dea's torso; it somehow felt safer this way – if there were an intruder, he would be the one to defend her. He pressed a final, tired kiss to the nape of her neck, and she grunted a quiet sound in response; sleep had mostly taken hold of her already, and Abelas merely smiled at the back of her head before allowing his own eyes to close. “Ar lath ma, Da'mi.” Perhaps, in time, he would have courage enough to say so to her directly, but for now, whispering such a thing in the shadows after a night of passion would have to suffice.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Emma na'tu reva'din, Elvar'asha" translates to "I am at your mercy, difficult woman."
> 
> "Ar lath ma, Da'mi" translates to "I love you, little blade."


End file.
